Текст книги "The Bitter Seed of Magic"
Автор книги: Сьюзан Маклеод
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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
Chapter Fourteen
‘Hang on,’ I muttered as my phone vibrated. I bumped the door to my flat closed with my hip, careful not to spill the cup of blood I’d just picked up from the Rosy Lea Café. With an annoyed sigh, I reactivated the protection Ward by banging my forehead against the painted wood; the Ward shimmered into life, a faint purple tinge on the white door. I dropped the ten-kilogram bag of salt—also from the Rosy Lea—next to the bucket beside the door and flexed my fingers, working out the cramps from carrying the salt up five flights of stairs. Life would be so much easier if I didn’t live in a converted Edwardian attic.
‘And life would be much easier if I didn’t have jealous witches, scheming fae, Machiavellian vamps, and The Mother of all goddesses to deal with on top of the fertility curse,’ I told the door, giving it a frustrated kick. I took a calming breath and muttered, ‘Stick to dealing with one problem at a time,’ and pulled my phone out.
I had a text from Finn:
I’m sorry. We need to talk. But not 2nite. I’ll CU 2morrow.
Short and not so sweet. I stared at the text, puzzled. It wasn’t like Finn and his inner white knight to leave me to my own devices, particularly when he knew my plans involved the vamps. Irrational disappointment flashed in me that he wasn’t beating my door down, as I’d half-expected him to be, along with morbid curiosity about what he wasdoing … and whether it had something to do with Helen.
Damn. I snapped my phone shut, put the cup down, hung my jacket up, tucked the police file Victoria Harrier had given me next to the bucket of salt, and mentally shelved Finn and the rest of the day’s dilemmas until later. I glanced at the clock: a little over four hours until sunset, so time enough for that long shower, a bite to eat and a bit of research before I headed off to Sucker Town and the vamp side of my problems.
But first things first. I might be home, but that didn’t mean I was safe.
I grabbed my drink and a handful of the salt already in the bucket and turned to look—and look—at my living room-cum-kitchen.
And at the books.
They were piled in knee-high stacks in my living room floor like a miniature village of tottering skyscrapers made of … well, stacks of books. Not being able to afford any furniture other than floor cushions was a definite advantage when it came to accommodating the fae’s curse– crackingresearch library, or at least the latest batch from the thousands of tomes they’d collected over the last sixty-odd years. The books had been arriving and disappearing on rotation ever since Tavish had told me about them and I’d insisted on checking them out for myself. Except Ihadn’t been the one insisting, had I? It was him, or rather him and Malik, the other half of that annoying, over-protective little double act. Between the Sleeping Beauty spell and Malik’s mind-mojo, I was surprised they’d stopped at imposing the curse– crackingreading on me, and hadn’t just wrapped me up in the proverbial cotton wool and kept me under magical house arrest.
It hit me that I didn’t need the books any more: the Librarian could have them all back.
I gave a loud whoop and, grinning happily, started to weave my way through the books to the kitchen, glancing through the open bedroom door as I did so. Spring sunshine was cutting bright rectangles on the wooden floor, which was thankfully clear; at least the books hadn’t migrated in there again. A lot of them were disturbing, eye-opening and literally nausea-inducing, so definitely not required bedtime reading. In the current piles were everything from an eleventh-century grimoire bound in sorcerer’s skin (a major eew!to read, even wearing three pairs of salted surgical gloves); a papal leaflet titled Inquisitional Techniques and Demonic Exorcisms, printed in 1573; a first edition of Frankenstein—author anonymous, of course; a pile of Walt Disney picture books; Grimm’ s Fairy Talesin five different languages; half a dozen new paperback releases with nothing in common other than ‘Curse’ in the title; and—
A virulent green cover on one of the many unread piles caught my eye: The Esoteric Practice of Malediction Propheciesby Michael Nix. I reached out to pick it up– Then snatched my hand away as a flash of magic revealed that the snot seeping out from its spine was real.
‘Sneaky,’ I muttered. After the first ‘WTF?’ spell I’d unwittingly triggered—the one that transported me straight to Finn; luckily he’d been working the late shift at Spellcrackers, but even so, naked is sonot the way to appear anywhere unannounced—I’d taken precautions. I looked up at my chandelier hanging from the vaulted roof and counted another row of blackened beads marring the long strings of amber– and copper-coloured glass drops. The Seek and Reveal spells embedded in the beads had cost me the equivalent of three months’ wages, even using my own crystals, but since it had exposed everything they’d sent—so far, at least—it was worth the expense. I narrowed my eyes at the snot-dripping book and scattered the handful of salt over it; it belched musty orange dust and I grabbed a tissue from my jacket pocket as I sneezed.
‘I can see you’re havin’ a fun day, doll.’ The amused burr came from the bedroom door behind me.
Startled, I turned too fast, and several book stacks avalanched like mismatched dominoes into a cluttered heap around me.
‘Tavish!’ I said, and my heart gave a happy little leap at seeing him. The feeling that all would be right now he was here brought a wide beam to my face. ‘When did you get back?’
He shot me an answering grin, his sharp-pointed teeth gleaming white against the deep green-black of his skin. As his eyes crinkled, the rim of white surrounding the beautiful, brilliant silver of his pupil-less eyes vanished. The grin softened the angular planes of his long face: Tavish isn’t so much handsome—with his Roman nose and pointed chin, his face is a less delicate version of my own, showing the sidhe part of his make-up—but like the kelpie-horse that is his other shape, he is compelling, alluring—
I started to step towards him, then sneezed again, and as I blew my nose, I realised I’d been staring at Tavish like a Charm-struck human. I wiped the silly grin off my face and gave him an irritated glare. ‘You’re doing it deliberately, aren’t you?’
His own grin faded as he placed his hand on his chest. ‘Ach, doll, but it sorrows my heart tae lose your smile.’
I stifled the urge to go to him and throw my arms round him. Damn, I’d had enough of this magical attraction stuff with Finn; I didn’t need it with Tavish too. Suddenly wary, I clutched at the cup with one hand and balled the tissue in my other, needing something real to hold on to. ‘I’ll lose more than my smile if I let myself fall for your charms, kelpie,’ I said flatly.
He threw his head back with a snorting laugh and I glimpsed the delicate black-lace gills flaring either side of his throat. ‘Aye, doll, perhaps—but I wait for the day when you nae longer wish tae resist me, when we shall ride intae the depths together.’ He sobered as the turquoise swirling in the depths of his silver eyes lit an answering curl of desire inside me. ‘And ’twill be a glorious pleasure for us both, my lady.’
I looked down and nudged a couple of books with the toe of my trainer, willing the desire away. Tavish was wylde fae, a kelpie, a soul-taster, and capricious, like the magic—not to mention dangerous, if he was talking about riding into the depths. But he was also my friend. So was it a warning? Trouble was, asking outright wouldn’t get me the answer, just like it was pointless confronting him about the bracelet, or anything else. He could talk round corners for England if he chose to: at my best guess, he’d been doing it for more than a millennium.
‘If wishes were horses, we could all ride away on them,’ I murmured, recalling one of my father’s sayings.
‘If wishes were fishes, we’d all cast nets,’ he replied cheerfully.
And the fishes would be caught.Hmm. ‘You’re looking guid, doll,’ he said, still showing his teeth.
I shot him a sceptical look. I’d spent the night in a police cell; there was no way I looked ‘guid’. Then I realised he wasn’t looking at me, or rather my body’s shell, but at my soul. And it probably did look all shiny and bright to him now the black tint of the sorcerer’s soul was gone. So why wasn’t he asking how I’d got rid of it? Unless, of course, I wasn’t the only one chatting to Malik in his dreamscapes—was that why Tavish was here now? Had the two of them been plotting again? Not that any of that explained his outfit, which was unusual, even for him.
He was dressed Elizabethan-style, his starched white neck-ruff a stark contrast to his green-black skin. His dreadlocks were piled into a spiky topknot, and the beads intertwined with the dreads were a brilliant aquamarine, matching the silk lining of his pantaloons.
‘Nice outfit.’ I raised my brows. ‘Did you escape from a fancy dress party or something?’
He twirled his hand in a flourish of lace as he bowed from the waist, keeping his eyes on mine, and I had the strangest feeling hewas wary of me. ‘The queen had hersel’ a hankering tae return tae earlier times, and her court has dutifully obliged her.’
‘Are you telling me that Queen Clíona can turn back time?’ I asked, astonished. ‘By several hundred years?’
He straightened and gave me a thoughtful look. ‘Am I telling you that? I dinna ken, doll—’tis always possible, for time is nae fixed in the Fair Lands as ’tis here in the humans’ world.’ He looked back over his shoulder and I thought I saw the flicker of candlelight instead of sunshine behind him … then it was gone. ‘I returned here tae you at this time as I desired tae do, but who kens where or when in the humans’ world I would be if I hadnae made my choice?’
‘That doesn’t really answer the question, Tavish.’
‘Maebe there’s nae answer to be had.’
An idea started to form in my mind. Was he just being tricky, or was he telling me something I needed to know that he couldn’t divulge? I left the idea to find its own shape and said, ‘So, what’s Clíona been saying?’
‘Her offer of sanctuary is as before, doll, and she’s nae telt me of any change.’
She hadn’t told himof any change, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t ready to tell someone– me—otherwise. Was that why he was here? To arrange for me to see her? Maybe after my trip to Disney Heaven—
‘I want to speak to her, Tavish. I want to ask her if there’s anythingshe can tell me, however insignificant it might be to her.’
‘She willnae allow you tae visit, doll. Once you join her court, you cannae return.’
‘Will she come here to speak with me, then?’
‘The Ladies Isabella and Meriel willnae open the gates to allow her entrance—’
‘Bullshit! You’re standing here talking to me, so why can’t she do the same?’
‘She’s a queen, doll. Queens dinna loiter in doorways chatting.’
Damn. If he wasn’t here on Clíona’s behalf, why was he here? I stared down at the cup, looking for an answer … and the earlier idea bloomed in my mind. ‘Tavish, you said you choseto come back to me now, but the queen’s taken the court back to the past …’ I tilted my head. ‘Does that mean you can choose a particular time to come back to, as it were?’
He dipped his chin, looking curiously at me. ‘’Tis nae something I’ve tried before, doll.’
‘What if you could go back to when the queen spoke the curse, and persuade her not to?’
He shook his head. ‘’Twould nae be possible, you cannae undo the time that is already passed betwixt two bodies; the queen’s path and mine together are already walked.’
‘Okay, so what about me? I’ve never met the queen, I could go back—’
‘It doesnae work that way, doll. The curse doesnae stem from when the queen uttered it and gave it substance, much as a stream doesnae spring from where it gushes out of the earth. It comes into being long before that; even should you happen on its source and change the path it takes, the stream will still exist—’
He broke off suddenly as a thin green arm snaked around his waist; a fine gold chain hung with chinking small keys trailed from the arm’s wrinkled but obviously feminine wrist. The distant lilt of music—a harpsichord?—sounded, and as Tavish turned his head, his image in the doorway faded as if a sheet of opaque glass had dropped between us.
The glass cleared. ‘She wants you to see what is to come,’ he whispered, his head bowing in acquiescence, his beads turning as dark as his green-black hair. Beyond him I glimpsed a dark, wood-panelled room, candles burning in wall-sconces, a four-poster bed hung with thick tapestry curtains tied at the corners, the mound of covers turned back. A tall, locust-like creature crouched near the bed, carefully and methodically smoothing the pale sheets with a long-handled brass warming pan.
In the middle of the room stood the green-skinned female. She was as skinny as her arm had suggested, and mostly human-shaped, except for the high, hairless dome of her skull, and the flat holes where her nose should be. She was naked, her skin sagging in wrinkled creases and her breasts hanging like empty, pendulous sacks. Her only adornment was the thin gold chain with the tinkling keys trailing from her wrist. Now, I noticed that the other end of the chain was linked around Tavish’s left ankle; rust-coloured stains marred the otherwise pristine whiteness of his hose. She smiled in anticipation—one long tooth protruded from her upper gum—as she lifted the chain and lazily pulled. She might look old, but she was strong, for Tavish jerked and gave a grunt of discomfort, his leg muscles bunching with effort as he fought to hold his position.
Was this Clíona? I tried to ask the question, but found I couldn’t speak, couldn’t move; I was suddenly trapped in that frozen, frightening place like a child in a nightmare.
The green-skinned female slid in next to Tavish, filling the gap he’d left in my bedroom doorway. She smiled, and a long forked tongue flicked out from between her lips and licked across his eyes. He flinched back, knocking his head against the door jamb, as she turned to face me. She slowly slid her hands down her wrinkled body, the air around her shivering with magic, and I watched, transfixed, as her body changed with time-lapse speed: her wrinkles smoothed out, her waist thickened, her abdomen stretched and swelled, her hanging breasts perked up, growing fuller and heavier, their pale nipples jutting out into large turgid peaks, until she stood panting and sweating, her hands cupping her now-massive pregnant belly. After a few seconds, her gasps subsided and she stroked her palms up over her extended stomach and then grasped her breasts, squeezing and pulling the engorged teats, even as she whimpered in pain, until blood seeped out and fell like dark rubies onto the warm honey colour of her enlarged belly. She cried out, the sound eerily familiar, and I looked up to meet her eyes—
–but instead met my own amber-coloured eyes, saw my own shocked face staring back at me, my sweat-drenched hair flat against my scalp, as if I were looking in a mirror. Blood-tinged tears snaked down my face, dripped off my chin and splattered on my pregnant stomach. My double reached out, the chain chinking on her wrist, and grasped Tavish’s hand, pressing it to her blood-smeared belly.
And I felt his touch on my own body. I looked down in stunned disbelief to find myself as naked as my double, my own abdomen swollen in pregnancy, my bladder painful with the pressure between my legs, my breasts aching and lactating blood. Something moved inside me and I stared in mute horror as the skin of my stomach bulged: a hoofed foot kicked low on the left side; a two-fingered clawed hand pushed out high on the right; the point of a sharp horn poked out above my belly button.
‘Little sidhe.’ The husky voice calling my name jerked my attention back to my pseudo-reflection, who stood with her legs spread wide and her arms outstretched, fingers gripping either side of the doorway, her head thrown back as she grimaced in pain. Tavish’s hand was splayed low, dark against the paler colour of her swollen belly, as if he could help support the heavy burden. I stared as smoke spiralled out from between his fingers and the oversweet smell of cinnamon clogged the air. My double writhed and screamed, her mouth opening wide to reveal four needle-sharp vampire fangs. Blood gushed from between her legs and pain, sudden and jagged, sliced inside me. I huddled over, clutching my own stomach and cold, viscous liquid slid down my own legs.
Then Tavish was there, the weight of his hand on my own stomach burning into my skin as I struggled, panting with terror and shock, feeling itstarting to push out between my legs. I doubled over in agony, scratching at his hand, desperate to get him away from me, desperate to escape—
‘’Tis this that she wants tae show you, doll,’ he whispered, his breath scorching my ear. ‘’tis thisthat could occur.’
My legs gave way and I fell forward, thudding onto my hands and knees. I screamed again as the molten burn of his hand sank into my flesh, eclipsing even the hot, tearing pain between my legs.
‘She would have me rip the babe from your belly and steal both its soul and your ain.’
I had to stop him; I had to save it – I had to save the baby.
Sobbing, I groped blindly at his legs, shredding his hose, raking bloody furrows in his calves, anything to make him stop—
‘So, ’tis a warning, tae nae let any of them plant their seed in your body.’
Fire blazed in my stomach, licked vicious, all-consuming flames through my body, and he roared in anguish. ‘I cannae gainsay her, doll: she has taken my reins, and you are nae tae trust me, for I am nae longer my ain master!’
–my fingers snagged on something cold and hard. The gold chain.I grabbed it where it trailed from his ankle, yanking at it with both hands, pulling his leg out from under him, feeling the little gold keys cutting into my palms, feeling his hand slide from my flesh as I collapsed, weeping, into the cold blood spreading beneath me.
‘Sidhe,’ the soft, husky voice murmured as sharp claws punctured the soft skin under my jaw and lifted my chin, ‘open your eyes and look at me, sidhe.’
I was frozen in the same nightmare state as before and I couldn’t refuse her order. I opened my eyes and stared into her acid-yellow ones.
‘Losing a child is … painful. The heart cracks and shatters into sharp, splintered pieces; pieces that are disparaged by the indifference of others.’ A curious expression crossed her wrinkled green face, and then her tongue flicked out and delicately licked a hot line across my face. ‘You, sidhe, you are not indifferent; you feel my pain in your tears. You will remember.’ She brought her face so close to mine that she was nothing more than a blur of green. Our lips met; her tongue slithered into and out of my mouth, leaving behind a taste of something bitter and sad. ‘You will remember.’
I swallowed, and the bitterness ran like sour juice down my throat, until it hit my stomach—
And I disappeared into a furnace of remembered pain.
Chapter Fifteen
There was a banging noise in my head; it meant something … The noise rolled around my mind like waves breaking on a shore, loud and close, then fading away … A rank butcher’s shop smell of spoiled blood wrinkled my nose. And the noise came back, this time shrieking like a storm wind battering through the trees. I half-opened my eyes and peered in confusion at the scattered pile of books next to me, and at my kitchen area beyond them. Why was I lying on the floor in my flat? Quiet footsteps tapped and scuffed on wood …
Memory caught up with consciousness and hit me like a Beater goblin’s baseball bat– The baby. I curled into a ball, protectively hugging my stomach, a whimper of terror escaping from my mouth … then, as I felt my belt buckle dig in at my waist and registered the absence of actual pain, reality began to reassert itself. Pulse leaping with frantic hope, I ran my hands over my body, checking, and finally lay back and stared blindly at my beaded chandelier in heartfelt relief.
I wasn’ t pregnant, and I hadn’t lost a child.
And if there was no child—what the fuck was the whole Ellen Ripley/ Alienbaby show all about?
The quiet footsteps stopped and something white blurred my view of the ceiling.
‘Fiddlesticks! Mother’s going to snap my twigs off if you’re broken,’ an annoyed voice muttered.
I squinted at a pair of feet in strappy silver sandals standing in the congealing blood next to my face: one heel was broken and half the pink-painted toenails were chipped. The feminine feet didn’t look threatening—but looks aren’t what matter; whoever it was had forced their way through my protective Wards, so chipped pink toenails or not, they could probably take me. My gaze skimmed over the shoes, past the thin ankles and up the slim, badly scratched legs that disappeared into white stretchy shorts. I stopped at the tattered edge of a pink and white flowered skirt that tented above me. Something about the way the material flared up was odd … like there should be an up-breeze to go with the movement. Then the skirt’s owner flattened the material as she bent down to study me, her bright eyes shining like polished green conkers, her lack of eyebrows giving her face an unfinished look. A scratched pink cycle helmet perched askew on her clipped scalp, the broken strap dangling by her left cheek.
Another dryad—and going by the eyes, I’d say it was Sylvia, Lady Isabella’s own daughter. Last time we’d met she’d tried to kidnap me.
This time I suspected her intentions were ‘friendlier’, as in ‘Nominated Go-Between’ … I really hoped so; I wasn’t sure I was up to dealing with much else right now.
‘Are you hurt, Ms Taylor?’ she shrieked, giving my shoulder a hard poke.
I winced at the noise– did she think I was deaf or something?—and smacked her hand away. ‘Not as much as you’re going to be if you touch me again. And hel– lo’—I pointed at my face—‘eyes open here?’
‘Just because your eyes are open doesn’t mean you’re awake, or even alive.’ She straightened, hands keeping the skirt under control.
‘I was moving! Dead people don’t move.’ Not usually anyway.
‘You were convulsing,’ she stated. ‘It’s not the same as moving. And you’re covered in blood.’
‘Lamb’s blood,’ I muttered, irritatedly eyeing the flattened Rosy Lea Café takeaway cup and my uncomfortable, blood-drenched jeans. Note to self: next time someone sics an Alien-inspired illusion spell on you, put the cup of blood down first. ‘It was dinner,’ I added with a sigh.
She tilted her head enquiringly to one side. ‘Are you going to lick it off the floor?’
Eew!‘No!’
‘Oh,’ she said, sounding disappointed. ‘Well, anyway, you should be grateful I was here to save you.’
Save me! What the—?I grimaced; was she channelling her graft-brother Bandana or something? And lying on the floor looking up her skirt was getting old, and as I didn’t appear to be suffering any ill-effects of whatever magic Tavish’s new mistress—or whoever the hell she was—had treated me to, I got to my feet.
‘Listen up, Sylvia’—I poked hershoulder, hard enough to rock her back on her broken heel—‘even if you did rush to my rescue, which is debatable, you’re a dryad, so you’ll have a long wait before I’m indebted to you or any of your pals.’
‘Gosh, you really are an ungrateful sort, aren’t you?’ she pouted, rubbing her shoulder.
‘C’mon, drop the injured act, Sylvia. It’s really not going to get you anywhere.’ I stuck my hands on my hips. ‘Ri– ight, let’s get a few things straight: this is my home, and you’re an uninvited guest, so you can start off with how you managed to get in, before Istart snapping off your twigs.’ Not that I actually knew where her tree was, but—
‘There’s no need to be like that.’ She made a little moue of disdain and fluffed out her flowery skirt—which I now realised was actually a fifties-style dress, one more suited to a summer heatwave than a cold spring day, since the halter top only just covered her ‘Hello, boys!’ cleavage. The top also didn’t hide the cuts and scratches marking her bare skin, the ones she was now examining intently.
‘I’m waiting,’ I said.
‘Oh, well.’ She gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘I wanted to see you, but none of your neighbours would buzz me in; they all said I’d have to phone you,’ she said, holding out her hand. A small compact mirror appeared in it. She opened the compact and adjusted her helmet. ‘I mean, can you believeit?’
Actually, I could. My witch neighbours might not be overjoyed to have me still living in the building, but after the events leading up to All Hallows’ Eve, they’d beefed up security.
‘I tried phoning, but you weren’t answering, and I knew you were here because the trees outside told me you’d come home. Then I remembered the old escape ladder at the back of your building that leads to the flat roof.’ She waved the compact vaguely at my bedroom. ‘I did intend to knock, until I saw you convulsing on the floor.’ She snapped the compact shut. ‘Your Ward caused me a bit of bother, though. Good thing the window frame is wood and not one of those horrid plastic ones, otherwise I’d never have got in.’ She held out her scratched arms and chewed her bottom lip. ‘It’s going to take a while to mend the damage though.’
I lookedthrough my bedroom doorway—now reassuringly back to being the entrance to my own room and not to Tavish’s shadowed bedroom in the Fair Lands. The bottom half of the sash window was raised up—so at least Sylvia hadn’t broken through the physical window—and still framed in the opening was the sheet of metaphysical blue glass—the Ward—which now had a cartoon starburst of a break in its centre. Damn.That was going to cost me. But while I was updating the Ward, I might as well do the sensible thing and get one that denied entry to everyone, since Sylvia, Tavish and Lizard Lady were probably just the start of my uninvited guests. Anxiety constricted my chest. Tavish is a centuries-old wylde fae, and let’s face it, no one gets to live that long if they’re stupid and easily trapped, so the Lizard Lady, whoever she was, had to be über-powerful, which didn’t bode well for Tavish. But then again, Tavish could be slippier than a whole nest of eels when he wanted, so his whole ‘nae longer my ain master’ tip-off might not be as troublesome to him as it appeared. Not that there was anything I could do to help him right now—
‘Ooh, have you seen this?’ Sylvia flapped a magazine– Witch Weekly—in my face. The front cover had a picture of a pretty teenage witch holding a cocktail and sitting in a jacuzzi with half a dozen older guys. The headline read:
SECOND SCHOOLGIRL STAR IN HOT WATER!
IS MORGAN LE FAY COLLEGE CURSED?
‘Such a scandal! The Witches’ Council are talking about axing the show because of it. Which would be such a shame—I love all those reality TV shows, don’t you?’
–not when I had an overly friendly dryad to deal with.
I hitched up my bloodied jeans, trying to make them more comfortable, and pushed the magazine aside. ‘I don’t have a TV, Sylvia, so no, I don’t, and I’m not in a chatty mood, so hurry up and tell me why you wanted to see me, then you can toddle off back to your tree.’ I indicated the rest of the scattered books and the puddle of drying blood we were standing in. ‘I’ve got a busy evening ahead being a Domestic Goddess.’
Her helmet fell forward over her forehead as she frowned around at the mess. She pushed it up absently. ‘Gosh, I forgot: you can’t sort things out with magic, can you? What you need is some help—and I know just the person to provide it.’ She gave me a dazzling smile.
Was I going to take the bait—sorry, turn down a free offer of help? Okay, so it wasn’t going to be truly ‘free’, but since I had an idea that being friendly was the starting price—
I nodded, and she held out her hand; this time a pink iPhone appeared; the small white flower-shaped phone-charm dangling from it glowed with a Buffer spell that made the phone look like it was wrapped in thick, protective plastic. She waggled it, obviously expecting me to comment.
Impressed despite myself, I said, ‘Nice bit of magic. I haven’t seen a Buffer like that before.’ I touched a finger to the spelled charm; it shocked me back.
‘It’s my own blend.’ She beamed. ‘I add powdered rowan berries. The standard spells don’t last long with me callingmy phone’—she gave a creaking laugh at her pun, and I lifted my lips in a smile to show I got it—‘you really don’t want to know how many scrambled SIM cards I ended up with.’
I really didn’t.
She thumbed the iPhone’s screen and it started ringing on speaker.
Nine rings later someone answered. ‘I told you not to phone me at work, Sssylvia. I’m busssy.’ The soft, sibilant voice sounded grumpily familiar: the Librarian.
‘Libby, darling,’ Sylvia said loudly, ‘this iswork. I’m over at the sidhe’s place and you can’t move for books.’
‘Ssshe wanted them.’
‘Well, we all know that she’s not going to find anything in them, don’t we, Libby, so do me a favour and callthem back, will you?’
I looked down at the scattered piles of books. There was one I wanted … I saw it next to the flattened takeaway cup and gingerly picked it up. Underneath was a small gold key. I picked that up too, then promptly wished I hadn’t as it melted into my palm and disappeared. Figured.
‘Told you, Sssyl, I’m busssy,’ the voice hissed down the phone. ‘Cataloguing.’
‘Gosh, Libby, then maybe I’ll have to get busy and put a “Keep Your Thieving Claws Off” spell on my books,’ Sylvia shouted at the phone, then winked at me. ‘Now stop being grouchy and callthe books back.’
A sibilant sigh echoed down the phone, and then my ears popped with the sudden pressure as the piles of books vanished.
‘Thanks, Libby.’ Sylvia smiled in satisfaction, then whispered, ‘The old dragon loves my paranormal romance books; she’s just too mean to buy them herself.’
‘I’ve got my hearing aid in, Sssyl,’ the voice grumbled.
‘I thought you said you didn’t need one, Libs,’ Sylvia shouted into the phone again, then tapped it, muttered ‘amplify’ and hung the iPhone on an invisible hook between us. ‘Anyway, I bought a couple of new romances yesterday; they’re on the table in my dressing room. Oh, and don’t forget—’
